


The Impossible Dream

by jbeakers



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Crack, John Lennon - Freeform, M/M, m-preg, paul mccartney - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 19:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jbeakers/pseuds/jbeakers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>JohnandPaul co-habitation fic.</p>
<p>M-preg silliness just for the fun of it.</p>
<p>It's weird. What can I say?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Impossible Dream

Paul kicked the front door open and nearly fell forward from the weight of the grocery bags he clasped to his chest. He caught the door with his shoulder and pushed it back until it closed.

“PAUL!! IS THAT YOU?!?!”

McCartney leaned his back against the door and sighed. Oh… why couldn't he have been caught in traffic or something? He had hoped John would sleep through his grocery trip.

He looked up just as something sailed past the bedroom door and crashed against the wall.

“PAUL!! IF THAT’S YOU, GET YOUR SORRY ASS IN HERE. OR SOME BAD SHIT IS GONNA HAPPEN!!!”

“Yes, it’s me John. I’ll be right there.” Paul called this out gently.

“YESTERDAY, McCARTNEY. YOU WROTE THE FUCKING SONG, NOW LIVE IT. I WANT YOU HERE YESTERDAY. BELIEVE IT!!”

Paul wondered how long John had been hollering for him. He sounded hoarse. He quickly set the grocery bags on the dining room table and headed for the bedroom. He grimaced wondering what lovely things John had planned for him.

He poked his head in cautiously and scanned for John. The bed was empty, but he heard a grunt to his right. Lennon had his back to him and apparently was trying to get dressed. Paul could only see his outline, as John stood inside the door of the walk in closet.

“John. You’re supposed to be in bed resting. Why are you up?”

Lennon’s head damn near disappeared into his shoulders. It was a bad sign, as it was Lennon preparing for battle. He didn't turn around, but Paul could tell he was speaking through angrily clenched teeth.

“Fuck off. I’m bored and tired of being in bed. I want to feel normal again. I want to get dressed and go somewhere OUT of this fucking house. I’m not helpless, and I am so bloody tired of everyone treating me like I am.”

Paul winced. Trouble was coming. He stupidly spoke, anyway.

“Come now, John. We've talked about this. The doctor said bed rest is the best thing for your health! I’m sure you’re just hungry. I’m sorry I was gone for so long.”

The statement seemed reasonable. He had forgotten that John Lennon had lost his reason a month ago when he was confined to bed rest.

Paul realized this too late.

Lennon turned and stepped into the light. Paul shifted his weight and reached into his back pocket… to painfully grab his own ass… to keep himself from bursting out laughing. His eyes watered, but he kept his empathetic face. Accent on the pathetic.

McCartney slowly took in the new look his forever mate had tried to put together. His collar brushing auburn hair stuck out in all directions. He had pulled on his black turtleneck jumper, which only made it half way down his swollen abdomen. He attempted grey wool slacks… which only half zipped, the rest of the waist band hung limply unable to surround the girth of John’s non-waist. A pile of Beatle boots were dumped just outside the closet door. John’s bare feet were the indication of a battle lost.  
Paul didn't dare laugh.

Red faced Lennon stared daggers at him, his breath coming in hitches as he mindlessly tugged at the hem of the jumper that once fit him perfectly. Paul waited patiently for the next morph. A tear slid down John’s cheek. Uh oh. Well, at least it wasn't going to be an attempted Macca strangling this time.

Without warning John burst into tears, dropping his hands to his sides utterly defeated. Paul got to him before he had a chance to draw a second shuddery breath. Paul grabbed him up in an enormous bear hug, and John took advantage of the balance help by flailing his arms without fear of falling over.

While John sobbed and spit out single words along with muttered curses to describe his unhappiness, Paul smiled his face off. He couldn't help it. Despite the mood swings, pregnant John was infinitely adorable. Paul couldn't smile much about it when he could be seen. John always thought he was being made fun of.

Slowly, John started speaking short, nonsensical sentences. He then went silent and hugged Paul back. Paul waited for the next morph. John’s hiccuping stopped; he loosened his grip on Paul and growled in his ear:

“Get your God Damned hands off me. Now.”

Tempting fate, and still grinning stupidly out of John’s sight, he gave John an extra squeeze before withdrawing. As he put on his serious face again, he stepped back and held a hand out to John.

“C’mon, John. You must be tired. Let me help you to the bed.”

“Oh, but isn't this how my little problem started in the first place, Romeo?”

John sneered this as he narrowed his eyes, daring Paul to touch him.

“As you wish, John. I need to go put the groceries away. Please call me if you need anything else.”

Paul pulled his hand back with a dramatic flourish and turned toward the door.  
“JUST THAT? You’re just going to LEAVE me here now? What the bloody fuck is the MATTER with you Paul??”

Paul turned silently and put a hand on the small of John’s back steering him toward the bed. He did all this with a neutral look on his face. He was a quick study considering how circumstances changed every six minutes or so.

He got John settled on the edge of the bed and grabbed his hand demanding his attention.  
“I’m not leaving you. You need to eat. Your fish ‘n’ chips are getting cold. You get yourself undressed again and I’ll bring you supper. Okay?”

“Yeah. I guess. I’m out of cigarettes…”

“I took care of that, too. There isn't anything to worry about. Just get yourself comfortable, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“I have to pee. Again.”

“Okay. Do you need me to help with that??”

“No. I can do that. I can’t wait to be able to pee normally again. The first thing I’m gonna do after this kid is born is piss my name on the bathroom wall. Christ. I dream about it…”

“Well, make sure it’s the hospital wall, then. I’d rather not clean that mess! Morning sickness puke was plenty for me.”

Paul chuckled and squeezed John’s hand. John giggled, too.

“Aw, Christ. I’m sorry, Paul. I just hate being cooped up. It’s driving me completely mad.”

“Hormones, John. Just go with it. We’ll laugh about it all some day. C’mon, grab around my neck so you can get up. Off to the loo with ya.”

Paul managed to get John upright again and smacked his ass as he shuffled away toward the bathroom. He noted the dull thud, of Lennon's rapidly spreading ass (as opposed to the springy slap of his normal ass). Note to self: never mention this. Ever. He grinned and headed to the kitchen.

When he returned to the bedroom, John was back in his nightshirt, and reclined comfortably on the bed. His disappointing 'going out' ensemble thrown all over the floor. He stared at the TV, absently patting his extended belly. Paul just grinned widely…  
He set a tray off to John’s side. Fish ‘n’ chips, and an array of condiments. Paul had long ago quit taking his meals with John. He couldn't eat watching the combinations of shit John would consume. Tonight was no exception. He dropped himself down on his side of the bed and fluffed the pillows.

He watched with masked horror as John took the fish and slathered strawberry jam over it, and put vinegar soaked chips on top of that. Then actually ATE it. He looked away and swallowed the lump in his throat; closing his eyes and listening to John smack his lips with delight. UGH. Paul got over his urge to barf, and turned his attention to the television.

He let his eyes slide closed while blocking John's eating sounds out. Soon he felt fingers in his hair and smelled cigarette smoke. He stretched and grinned, John was done eating. He fought the urge to check if John had jam all over his fingers... Paul purred and reached up and stroked the hand in is hair. Then stupidly spoke.

“I’ll get your supper stuff out of your way soon, Johnny…” and that’s all he got out.

“What the bloody fuck is THAT supposed to mean, PAULIE?”

Paul startled and sat up in a hurry.

“It isn't supposed to mean anything! I was going to say I was enjoying being here with you. That’s all…”

“Oh. Well. Uh. Sorry. You sounded irritated, like I'd asked you to clear things for me. Never mind. Leave the shit, I don't care.”

Ah shit. John had morphed again. A tear rolled down his face, and per usual Paul was clueless what to do about it. He looked down at his hands and made a quick decision: No touching. Try to get him to talk…

“John. What’s the matter? Do you have something on your mind? Is there something that can be done to make things better for you? We’re so close to the end…”

John wailed. It was a bad choice of words. Whoops. Paul was frantic. OK, touch, try touch. Oh shit…

He scrambled to get up next to John and put his arm around his shoulders, keeping the other free to fend off a sudden attack if need be.

“THE END? Now you are gonna LEAVE? When? I’m sorry I’m fat and smelly, and tired all the time!!! I can't help it!! It’s no reason for you to l-l-leeeavvve!!!”

“NO! NO, JOHN! Listen to me! I’m not going anywhere! I meant we’re so close to you having the baby… you misunderstood. Please calm down…”

This did not help. As quickly as the tears started, the pissed off took over. Hormones…

“WE aren't close to anything. I am having something. You just get to point and smile like a bloody FOOL!! "Lookit me! I'm Paul McCartney!! My dick works, wanna see what I did?" You fucking arse!! Look at me! Jesus CHRIST!! I haven’t seen my feet for months now! When I do get a bloody glimpse of them, I have no ankles, Paul! Just stovepipes that lead to feet! And they fucking hurt!”

“I know, you're the one going through this. To be fair, I have never pointed to you as an accomplishment--at least in the creepy terms you just spat out. All the swelling and stuff is perfectly normal, John. If you’d stay put like the doctor said, your feet wouldn't hurt so badly…”

John ignored him.

“I hated puking, Paul. A man should only puke when he’s had too much beer. I never projectile puked in my life until you did this to me…Ugh. I have tits, Paul. It’s disgusting. I like tits. I don’t want them for myself. It’s bullshit. No one warned me of this shit. No one warned me I’d be farting atom bombs, either. Or wondering if I was ever gonna take a shit again. It’s not a nice thing to wonder, Paul. You should try it.”

“No, puking isn't fun, but its part of the process. Well, it stands to reason that if you’re having a baby, you’re gonna get tits, John. The doctor assured you that you’d be back to zero size shortly after the birth… and the rest is all normal shit, John. It’s gonna be okay…”

“I’m not having a baby, Paul. I’m fucking CERTAIN I’m having a bloody LITTER. Lookit the SIZE of my belly, man!! I’m the human version of a Great Dane. We’re gonna have seven or eight McFuckwits running around here! All perfect eyebrows and speaking Queen’s English!!”

Paul couldn't help himself. He let out a genuine giggle and buried his head in John’s shoulder. Soon he was shaking with laughter. John giggled himself and elaborated.

“Ha, and what of the poor Lennonite puppies, eh? All crawling around and crying in corners wishing they had pretty eyebrows too? They’ll be fucked up, Paul!! When they start walking late, they’ll be running into walls and swearing in Scouser accents!! What are we gonna do with the poor things with their beaky noses and bad eyesight??”

This did Paul in. He coughed hard, and broke into roaring laughter. John was laughing too for a change.

He dropped his guard and reached his other hand over to stroke John’s distended belly while they both calmed down. John coughed and sighed putting a hand over Paul’s, stroking their creation. He then shook John’s shoulder to get his attention, and looked into his eyes before speaking.

“Well, let’s look at this reasonably, John. There won’t be McFuckwits and Lennonites, for one. The entire litter will be Mclennonwits. They’ll all have both of our good and bad characteristics; and this leads me to believe they’ll be absolutely perfect. How could they not be, when our combination is already perfect? You worry too much, luv.”

John smiled and leaned over and kissed him, but continued their stare as he pulled back.

“Arsehole. Its sweet talk like that that got me into this situation, ya know.” He winced and they both snapped their heads toward John’s belly.  
“Holy shit. I guess I should talk nicer to you, Paul. That was a fucking kick and a half.”

Paul nodded his head.

“I guess you should. The doc said you should be feeling a lot more of that, as you’re coming to term…”

“Lovely. I can hardly wait for the McLennonwit shits to begin… fucking hell.”

Paul giggled and laid his head on John’s shoulder again.

“Nice picture, Lennon.”

John woke up later, completely disoriented, and the room was dark. He felt someone nuzzling his neck, must be Paul. A kiss to his cheek. Definitely Paul. He reached down to check his belly, and was startled to find only a slight pudge. He ran his hand up his torso. No tits, either.

He wasn't pregnant!

He wasn't gonna be, either.

Immediately he thrust a hand out and stiff armed McCartney right off the bed.

“JOHN!!! What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“Nothing Paul, get the fuck out. No Romeo talk, no nothing. Go sleep with Geo. Be his problem. Take your pillow. BYE!!”

“Um, John? Geo doesn't live with us. Romeo? What the hell are you talking about?!”

“US? Geo doesn't live with US???”

John shook his head, trying to force himself into the present day...or something...

“He never has, you fucking prat. Are you still asleep? We’re home, on break from the tour. What the hell is going on with you??”

Thoroughly confused, John stuck with his plan.

“It doesn't matter. Get the fuck out. We’ll figure everything out in the morning. Apparently I've had a nightmare. Just leave me alone for now, Paul. Please. Now.”

“If this is about those press guys teasing you about your weight, just let it go, John. You worry too much, luv.”

Wrong thing to say.

“Out, Paul. If I have to pick you up and throw you, I will. Just give me some time to think.”

Paul sighed and grabbed his pillow.

“Goodnight. I love you. Are you sure you don't want to talk...”

“Goodnight, Paul. Sweet dreams. Get the fuck out.”

Paul shook his head once more and shut the bedroom door as he left.

John ran to the bathroom to look himself over in the mirror. Oh, relief!! Yep, pudgy around the middle, but he’d lose that in no time. Fuck the press.

He got back into bed and rolled on his back, rubbing his stomach.

His hand stilled while he was thinking about how that dream was so fucking real it scared him.

He then felt the tiniest kick under his palm…

FUCKING HELL...


End file.
